


are you worth your weight in gold

by seijuro



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:05:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3443183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seijuro/pseuds/seijuro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten moments between Nijimura and Akashi.</p>
            </blockquote>





	are you worth your weight in gold

**Author's Note:**

> fic dump from bps! i didn't want to post them all as separate chapters, so you get one long fic... sorry ...  
> watch out for the warnings at each drabble!
> 
> title from "hurricane" by panic at the disco. it doesn't have any actual relevance, i just really like that song.
> 
> tumblr: seijuurouakashi  
> twitter: akanijis (follow reqs = ok! i'm very talkative on twitter if you wanna chat)

*****

**a chance for pea(ce) // princess and the pea au  
** **warnings: n/a**

*****

It was raining when Akashi was brought into the castle. Mibuchi was on him like white on rice, giving him dry clothes and offering to take care of the wet ones. “I’m really sorry!” Mibuchi said, looking as if he was on the verge of tears. “I didn’t realize the weather wouldn’t be mild today

Akashi shrugged his hood off. “It’s quite alright, Reo.”

Mibuchi exhaled, smiling fondly. “Your room is this way, Sei.”

*

Mibuchi was like an overbearing mother, though certainly not in a bad way. Akashi gazed up at the 20 mattresses and blankets piled so high they almost reached the ceiling.

Unblinking, he said, “Reo, I don’t see how you can expect me to reach the top of this bed.”

Mibuchi, who flocked to him with a tray of food, gasped. “I’m sorry, Sei! I didn’t think that through!” Bustling to the closet, he yanked out a big ladder. It was the largest one Akashi had ever seen, and it stretched to the top of the mattresses like a rosevine. “That should be alright, yes?”

Akashi looked up at it and began to prepare for the longest climb of his life. “Certainly.”

*****

Mayuzumi stirred his drink before saying, “I don’t think he’s an actual prince.”

Mibuchi nearly fell out of his chair. “Why are you being so cynical? Sei wouldn’t lie to me!”

The look Mayuzumi gave him was a little threatening. A little. “I dunno about you, but if I knew someone would believe me every damn time, I’d definitely lie to them.”

Mibuchi looked nothing short of offended. “Yes, but Sei isn’t that way.”

Standing up, Mayuzumi put his empty cup in the sink. The fireplace cracked and burned. “And if he is? He won’t tell us what kingdom he’s from, or who his dad is. We’re just supposed to fear him.”

Mibuchi remained stubborn. “Maybe he’s just uncomfortable telling us this kind of thing.”

Growling, Mayuzumi slapped a hand to his forehead. “Or maybe he just enjoys taking advantage of your brainless hospitality.”

“I know him better than you do. Sei wouldn’t do that.”

Mayuzumi turned towards the door, prepared to make his way to his room. “We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” The way he stared at Mibuchi almost gave him chills, and, shuddering, Mibuchi huddled closer to the fire.

*****

Finally reaching the top of the mattresses, Akashi let out a laboured breath. _Stupid ladders,_ he thought loathsomely. Everything would have been so much easier if Murasakibara had agreed to picking him up and placing him at the top, but he wasn’t exactly home, and Akashi was having a hard time remembering if he was tall enough. Probably not.

Not that it mattered, of course. Akashi plopped down on top of the mattresses, ready for a goodnight’s sleep. Fate had other ideas. Despite having  _twenty_ of them, they were unbearably tough for reasons Akashi could not explain. Stiff as boards, Akashi thought, gingerly rubbing his bottom. It felt as if there was an uncomfortably large lump beneath all the mattresses; Akashi could feel it. As much as he wanted to convince himself it was nothing, it wasn’t.

A voice called out: “Help!”

Akashi nearly fell off all twenty damned mattresses, heart jumping.

“I know there’s someone on there. Don’t ignore me! Help!” The voice was muffled and furious.

Cautiously, Akashi gazed down from the twenty mattresses. “Who are you?”

“That’s not important,” said the voice, letting out an agonized grunt. Akashi cringed. “Get me out of here!”

“Forgive me,” Akashi said, “but I should get you out of  _where_?”

The answer was delayed by a series of pained noises. “The mattresses! I’m below the mattresses!”

“How are you alive, then?”

The voice snapped, “I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”

Akashi had half a mind to stay there. The speaker wasn’t exactly dead yet, but at this rate, they would be. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“Oh,” said the voice, and fell silent. “Well, the first five mattresses aren’t really mattresses. They’re like a cage, of sorts?”

Akashi, for what it was worth, noted that he would not mind at all if the speaker died in the cage.  _No wonder all these mattresses are so thick._ “Why are you in there, and how do I get you out?”

“Hell if I know!” As if composing themselves, the speaker let out a long sigh. “Well, there’s a button.”

“A button,” Akashi repeated, incredulous.

“Yes, a button! On the first mattress! Beneath the bed skirt!”

Akashi hesitated. “How do you know?”

The voice sounded desperate. “I helped build this damned contraption. Please.”

 _Today,_ Akashi thought,  _is not exactly my day_ , and began his descent.

*****

There was indeed a button. It was very red and very large, and the messy writing on it said,  _Do not press._ It was also not very convincing. Akashi pressed the button. The bedclothes fell down the first five mattresses on command, revealing a large, wooden box. Akashi stared at it for some few moments before the door of the box swung open, almost knocking Akashi down in the process.

A young man walked out, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He was taller than Akashi, and very well built—Akashi found his eyes wandering from his sharp cheekbones to the outline of muscles beneath the thin white shirt.

 _Oh,_ Akashi thought, and licked his dry lips.

“Thanks for saving me,” said the young man. The look he gave Akashi certainly wasn’t helping. “I’m Nijimura, by the way. Is there any way I can repay you?”

Akashi looked him over again and swallowed. “My name is Akashi. And, well, there is  _one_  way I can think of…”

*****

Nijimura stormed into the dining room, Akashi behind him. “Whose brilliant idea was it to  _trap me beneath the mattresses?_ ” He looked nothing short of murderous. Akashi didn’t blame him.

Mayuzumi, not even bothering to look up from his book, said, “Certainly not me.” When he did look up, it was at Akashi. “Oh, hello, Prince Akashi. Sleep well?”

*****

**bird brain // high school au  
** **warnings: n/a**

*****

Coincidentally, he was on the roof. Akashi supposed it wasn’t much of a coincidence at all—everyone who didn’t want to be found in  _some_ way hid there; Aomine did when there was practice he was missing, and an angry Momoi who disapproved of his frequent skip sessions—it was the first place he always turned to when someone was missing, and the place that yielded the most results.

Akashi wasn’t sure what he expected to begin with. The boy lazing on the top of the roof had his uniform jacket off in favour of wrapping it around his waist. The buttons of his shirt were loose and some open, revealing the scoop-neck of a black tanktop beneath. His tie was messy, but he looked harmless. (That, Akashi thought, was something he did not expect.)

Whose brilliant idea was it to send  _Akashi goddamn Seijuurou_  after the school’s resident delinquent, anyway? Thinking about it made Akashi’s head hurt. If it made the situation any worse (which it did), the delinquent was a third year. Akashi was a few months into his first year. He was at least a little flattered that they thought he’d be able to control some other student, but it was unfair of them to put the responsibility on his shoulders.

 _Well._ Clearing his throat, Akashi approached the boy. “My name is Akashi Seijuurou,” he said, adjusting his tie. He noted with distaste that the roof was chilly, but the air was clearer than in any of the school’s stuffy rooms. “I believe you are Nijimura, correct?”

‘Nijimura’ turned to look at him. He was so  _casual_ , arms loose at his sides. When he stood up, he had to look down to speak to Akashi. “Yeah.”

Akashi cleared his throat, mildly annoyed. “The teachers sent me to go after you.”

Nijimura grinned.  _Oh._  “Figured as much. Most people don’t bother coming up here otherwise.” Untying the jacket from around his waist, he shrugged it on.

“Why is that?”

Shrugging again, Nijimura said, “I dunno, but the fact that it’s restricted might be kind of a turn-off. That might just be me, though.”

Akashi resisted the urge to slam his face into a desk. “Well, that is true. But… in any case, I’d appreciate it if you could head back with me.” He checked his watch. There were ten more minutes until the end of the lunch period.

Nijimura knelt down to tie his shoelaces, wiping some dirt off the side of his scuffed shoes. Akashi thought of his own shoes, and was overcome with something that was and wasn’t pity. “Give me a good reason, and I’ll think about it.”

Akashi hesitated. “They asked for your presence.”

Laughing, Nijimura stood up. Akashi’s eyes went from his arms to his face. “That’s not a good reason.”

Next time, they were better off sending one of the lunch ladies after their resident delinquents. “Alright,” Akashi said, crossing his arms. “What do you suggest is a good reason for staying up here?”

Nijimura wandered off to the far side of the roof, and crouched beside a mass of boxes filled with God knew what. When he stood up again, he was holding something in his hands. He held it as if it was more fragile than glass but more precious than gold, and as he got closer, Akashi heard him cooing.

 _Please_ , Akashi thought,  _let me be wrong._

“This,” Nijimura said excitedly, and when Akashi looked down, a baby bird chirped back at him.

He wondered if it was too late to ask for a school transfer.

*****

**high seas // pirate au  
** **warnings: suggestive themes, minor violence**

 *****  

Midorima told him bringing any stragglers aboard was asking for trouble. Nijimura was more inclined to listen to Midorima’s reasoning than anyone else’s, but when he asked for clarification, he was met with a brusque, “I just have a hunch, and you know I rarely trust those. Something about him just seems  _off._ ”

Nijimura took it upon himself to kindly remind Midorima they were  _pirates_ , and they made a living off of thievery and murder and were therefore a little “off” themselves, but Midorima would not buy it.

“He’s just strange,” Midorima insisted. “If his story was true, there’s almost no way he should have survived. It doesn’t make sense.” He looked down at his maps, then back at Nijimura, pushing his glasses up.

Nijimura was quite proud of his levels of patience. “Maybe,” Nijimura said, acknowledging Midorima’s point for what it was worth, “but until I’ve got a solid reason to believe otherwise, he’s staying with us.”

Midorima only shook his head. “By that time, it’ll be way too late.” Nijimura had a habit of taking care of wounded animals, and it was beginning to show itself as more than a habit: it was beginning to show itself as a flaw.

Akashi—the name he’d given them—was hardly a wounded animal, but Nijimura couldn’t think of any analogies that would fit better. He sat there with them at the table below the deck, wrapped in Nijimura’s cloak.

(“His clothes were soaked,” Nijimura told Midorima, “and nobody else’s clothes would fit him. I didn’t want him to catch a cold.”

“Of course,” Midorima said. His mouth was straight, but his nose was all wrinkled up, and Nijimura rolled his eyes.)

He’d hardly said anything the entire time, just poked at his food with the fork. He looked almost delicate, and the cloak was big enough to drown in.

“Are you doing alright?” Nijimura asked, putting his cup down.

Akashi almost jumped, but he regained his composure quickly. “Yes, of course. I just don’t have much of an appetite.” He huddled further into the cloak, looking deep in thought.  

“Gotcha,” Nijimura said, taking another bite out of his own food. He didn’t have to look at Midorima to know he was growling at his side of the table. “So, where did you say you were headed? Maybe we can drop you off.”

“ _Captain Nijimura,_ ” Midorima hissed.

“The main island,” Akashi said, brightening immediately. “I have family there, you see. I was on a trading ship with my parents, and then…” He trailed off.

Nijimura thought of his own father, and felt himself freezing. “Oh, okay. Midorima, how far are we from there?”

“About a few day’s time.” Midorima had yet to take his eyes of Akashi, and honestly, it was a little unnerving. Nijimura shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Great,” Nijimura said. “We can afford a little detour, can’t we?”

The rest of the crew hardly cared—Aomine and Kise were sick of being on the ocean, Murasakibara was fine either way, Momoi was tough and could handle being on the ship even if it was floating on lava, and Kuroko was, well… Kuroko. He couldn’t think of a better way to describe it than that.

“It’ll delay our destination,” Midorima said, pushing his glasses up again. He stopped staring at Akashi to take a quick bite of food. “By a few days.”

(“The main island,” Midorima told him one day, “is  _infested_ with royal guards. There’s is absolutely no way we’ll be able to make it there and leave alive. We’re just begging to be thrown into cells.”

“Have a little faith, yeah?”)

“That’s not bad.” Nijimura watched Akashi eat. He ate in tiny nibbles, and there was over half of his serving left. When he noticed Nijimura staring, he smiled. Nobody else seemed to notice. Nijimura felt himself heating up, and knew it had nothing to do with the jacket he was wearing.

Midorima’s gaze was hateful enough to kill. “Who knows what can happen in a few days?”

“We’ve always liked a challenge, right?” Nijimura stood up, stretching, giving Akashi an almost daring look.

“Yeah,” Aomine said, and Nijimura began to doubt if he’d been listening at all. It was an unsettling thought.

Akashi seemed to return the look, and Nijimura felt his mouth going dry.

*

When the rest of the crew left, Akashi and Nijimura were left below the deck. Primly, Akashi picked up the napkin and began to dab at his mouth. His eyes were on Nijimura the entire time.

“The cloak okay?” Nijimura said upon remembering how to speak.

Akashi blinked and stood up, lashes dark. “Of course. It’s quite warm.” He walked towards Nijimura, lowering his hood. When he leaned forward, the cloak slipped a little, revealing an expanse of pale skin and sharp collarbones. He swallowed.

“Glad to hear it,” Nijimura said.

Akashi was finally close enough for Nijimura to smell, and just barely, there was a hint of salt. In one moment their lips met—there was the taste of smoke, and it took hold of his breath without giving it back—

—and then there was dull pain in his leg until it exploded into shocking brilliance. Before Nijimura could scream, before he could even understand what was happening, a cloth was pressed over his nose and mouth.

“Akashi,” he said to Nijimura, colours already beginning to bleed into grey. “Akashi Seijuurou. Captain of the royal guard.”

*****

**dog days // college + werewolf au  
** **warnings: violence, minor gore**

 *****  

It was hardly Akashi’s business if he came home from basketball practice to see his roommate licking a bone. It was  _also_ none of his business if he then watched said roommate curl up next to the foot of the bed like a dog and continue watching TV as if nothing had ever happened. 

Akashi dropped his gym bag. “Well.” 

Nijimura looked at him from his place next to the bed, blinking a few times to adjust to the light Akashi had unwillingly brought into the room. “Welcome back. How was practice?” In the short time it’d taken him to speak, Nijimura had uncurled from near-fetal position and was instead lying there with his legs stretched out across the floor. The hem of his shirt had begun to ride up, revealing a tan, muscled 

“Good,” Akashi said, and both of them made a mental vow to never bring it up 

* 

Akashi would have been content to abide to the vow if he hadn’t found fur all over the room. At first, it was only a little, and he thought it was from Nijimura’s jacket or something (he had at least five with fake fur on the hood, but there was  _too_  much fur in the room and not enough of it on the jacket to begin with). That was before it began showing up thicker and darker. 

“Nijimura,” Akashi said, “do you want to tell me why there’s  _fur_  all over the place?” 

Nijimura’s head shot up immediately and the hand scribbling down notes stopped. “I would, if I knew why.” 

“Funny,” Akashi said, tapping his foot. There were only two of them in the room, and Akashi knew for a fact that he didn’t  _shed_  on a regular basis. He was also pretty damn sure no human did, either. “Do you mind cleaning it up?” 

Nijimura looked like a deer in the headlights when he said, “Nope.” 

Akashi found bits of it in his bed, and considered requesting a roommate change. 

* 

“He sheds,” Akashi said, slamming his fist on Midorima’s desk. “ _Sheds._ ” 

Midorima pushed his glasses up and gave him a sour look. “ _I_  shed.”” 

“You’re missing the point. He sheds like a  _dog_ does.” 

“I thought pets aren’t allowed?” Midorima had gone back to clacking away at his keyboard. 

“They aren’t,” Akashi said. “That’s the point.” 

Midorima looked back up from his laptop and they sat there in quiet. “Maybe he snuck a dog in.” 

“I don’t…” Akashi trailed off, wondering what had given him the idea of going to  _Midorima_ for advice in the first place. “I don’t think that’s what happened.” 

“A cat, maybe?” 

* 

Akashi found dogfood in the cupboard along with a gigantic bag of doggy treats, and swore himself that he would let it slide. It wasn’t worth the trouble. He considered vaguely bringing it up with Nijimura when he opened the wrong drawer and found mountains of  _doggy_  toys, but realized better. Even if Nijimura was…not  _human_ (whatever he was, Akashi had no words for him), there was no guarantee he’d admit it. He probably wouldn’t, anyway. If Akashi was half-cat or something equally ridiculous, he knew  _he_ wouldn’t. 

When Nijimura was gone at some sport practice (Akashi thought he played soccer), Akashi brought it upon himself to do some additional investigating. Poking around the room found him nothing else, or at least nothing interesting. Akashi was bored out of his school, and going to Midorima hardly seemed like a good option. 

Beneath Nijimura’s bed was a vest. It was heavy and rather ugly, and Akashi had never seen him wear it before. Picking it up, he felt around the front and sides. The material was uncomfortably thick. 

( _Bulletproof?_ Akashi wondered, already aware of the answer.) 

He hardly had time to shove it back under the bed when Nijimura walked in the door, only to see Akashi kneeling by the bottom of his bed. 

“Looking for something?” Nijimura said, dropping his stuff right by the door and heading for the bathroom. “I cleaned up earlier. If I found anything of yours, I dumped it in the bin.” 

Akashi tried to reign in his heartbeat. “Thank you.” 

* 

The next time Akashi looked at the bag of doggy treats and food, about half of it was missing. 

 _Snuck in a pet, my ass._  

* 

He was out with Midorima in the park, the both of them crowded around a chessboard. Of course, it was just Akashi’s luck that the soccer team was practicing in the same park. It was mid-summer, and he had his shirt pulled off. Akashi took a moment to stare at him. Even if he was just playing soccer, his eyes had take on the look of a hunter. Unwillingly, Akashi shivered. 

“Akashi?” Midorima asked, tapping his foot impatiently. “It’s your move.” 

“Right,” Akashi said. 

He lost for the first time that day. 

* 

When Nijimura returned home one day with his blood-soaked hand clutched to his chest, Akashi took the opportunity to put everything Midorima had ever taught him to good use. He urged Nijimura to the couch and shoved him over, grateful that for once he  _listened_. Prying his hand off his chest, Akashi was met with a wound. The silver edge of a bullet stuck out. He thought of the vest. 

Gently, Nijimura pushed him aside, reaching for the tip of it with two fingers. “I got it,” he said, eyes shut tight. When he finally managed to pull the bullet out, he threw it to the far side of the room and let out a shuddering gasp. 

Akashi began to wrap it right away, and was about to patch up the other various gashes when Nijimura held up his hand. In front of him, flesh weaved over muscle over bone. 

“Are you a vampire?” Akashi asked, not expecting an answer. 

Nijmura looked at him and  _grinned_ , and it was only then that Akashi noticed the sharp edge of his teeth and the dark that wept over his eyes in  _gold._  

“Worse.”

*****

**catastrophe // college au  
** **warnings: n/a**

*****

There was a cat in his house. It took Nijimura a few minutes to recognize it as a cat, but when it prowled over to him with its tail waving behind it and its eyes on Nijimura’s coffee mug, there was no denying it.  _Well._  

Nijimura walked to the cupboard and took out a little dish. The cat’s eyes had yet to leave his face. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Nijimura said. “You want some milk, righ? Cats love milk.” He opened the fridge and, yawning, took out the carton. It was around half-empty. He made a note to buy some more later. 

Kneeling beside the cat, Nijimura put the dish down and poured a little bit of milk inside. The cat lapped it up. Nijimura had no idea why there was a cat in his house or whose cat it was, but he’d spent all of last night finishing a paper and was surviving on fifty-percent bad music and fifty-percent Red Bull. 

“Do you like that milk, kitty?” Nijimura said, sitting in his office chair.  _It was_ , he reasoned,  _too damn early to kick a cat of his house._  

The cat did not answer, and opted for licking the dish clean instead. Nijimura was not impressed. It was a cute cat (all cats were cute), hospital-white with large green eyes. The only thing  _slightly_ unsettling about it was that it had yet to take its eyes of Nijimura’s face. 

“Wanna take a picture? It’ll last longer.” 

The cat, again, did not answer. Nijimura wondered if a dish of milk was more interesting than he was, only to realize he didn’t exactly want to know the answer. 

Leaning forward to pet the cat, Nijimura recoiled when claws met skin. 

The day was already shaping up to be a promising one. 

 *****  

“Dude, there’s what?” 

“Were you even listening to me?” Nijimura ripped the phone out of Aomine’s hands. “There’s a cat in my house. And it scratched me.” 

Aomine reached for the phone. “Did you forget to lock the door? Again?” 

Nijimura threw it back to him, crossing his arms in disgust. “I only did that once.” 

“Twice,” Aomine said, and nothing else. 

“Well, whatever. What do I do with it?” 

Aomine shrugged and went back to scrolling through his phone. Nijimura wanted to kick both Aomine and his precious phone into the next century. “Dunno. I’ve never had a cat before. 

“That’s not what I’m asking. What do I do about the random fucking cat in my house?” 

“Pet it, maybe?” 

Nijimura stood up. “You’re no help at all.” 

“Hey, wait!” Putting his phone down for the first time that day, Aomine scratched his head. “Does it have a collar?” 

Sinking back into his chair, Nijimura said, “I didn’t think about that.” 

 *****  

The cat did indeed have a collar. Nijimura didn’t have to be an expert to tell it was an expensive one, and the name the collar bore said  _Snuffles._  

“Hello, Snuffles,” Nijimura said, keeping his distance. Snuffles glowered at him before curling up on the coach. Nijimura prayed to God the cat did not shed. 

Nijimura was about to call the number on the collar when a knock resounded on his front door. Shoving his hands in his pockets, Nijimura opened the door. 

“What’s up?” 

A red-headed young man in a well-tailored suit stood there, arms crossed. Behind him, Nijimura could see a shiny, expensive car.  _Holy shit._  He felt the sudden and not-so irrational urge to reassure the man he had not done anything illegal. 

“Good morning. I was wondering if you had seen a white cat around here?” He spoke as many rich people did: elegant and reeking of ulterior motives. Nijimura thought of Snuffles, and went silent. 

“I haven’t slept in two days,” Nijimura blurted before he could stop himself. He recovered quickly. “But, uh, yeah. There’s a white cat in my house.” 

Neither of them asked why a rich boy’s cat was Nijimura Shuuzou’s house. “Let me go get him.” He was about to leave and get rid of Snuffles once and for all when the young man said, 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. He doesn’t take kindly to strangers.” 

 _Stupid cat. Mooching off my milk and then scratching me_. Nijimura held up his freshly bandaged hand. “Oh, trust me, I know.” 

Cringing, the young man said, “My apologies.” 

Nijimura returned either way, holding out the stupid cat. “Here he is. I bet he’s happy to see you.” 

The young man blinked for a few minutes before taking Snuffles in his arms. The look on his face was so tender Nijimura could have died. “I… Thank you. Is there any way I can repay you?” 

 _Give me your number,_  Nijimura thought, but it took him a moment to realize he’d said it out loud.

*****

**the truth catches up with us eventually // superhero + high school au  
** **warnings: profanity, violence, non-major character death**

*****

When Nijimura showed up to class late with a black eye, bruising, and scratches so bad everybody turned to look, Akashi said nothing about it. In a way, it was something Nijimura appreciated about his best friend. He’d come to understand things, and though he didn’t ask questions (Nijimura reasoned he was tired of not getting answers, or something like that), there was no denying that he cared.

After school, they sat on the bench in the nurse’s office (it was a miracle that the grumpy woman allowed them to stay after hours, though when Akashi was involved, miracles simply didn’t  _exist_ _)_. Akashi took out a cotton ball and dabbed at one of the cuts on Nijimura’s face, eyes narrowing when he winced. “If you didn’t want to deal with this, you shouldn’t have fought in the first place.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,  _Mom_.”

Akashi ignored him. “I said this to you last time. And the time before that. And the time before _that._ Everyone’s going to think you’re a delinquent.” He clapped both his hands on the sides of Nijimura’s cheeks and twisted his head to get a better look at the wounds.

“They’re used to it now,” Nijimura offered.

He didn’t have to see the look on Akashi’s face to know he disapproved. “Regardless, as your best friend, I refuse to allow this to continue happening.” Pulling away from Nijimura, he folded his hands in your lap. “What about your parents?”

“Parent,” Nijimura said. “Dad’s hardly conscious enough in the hospital to give two shits about whether or not I get into fights.”

Sighing, Akashi unbuttoned the front of Nijimura’s shirt and began to check for bruising. The skin around his ribs had gone different shades of purple and blue. Akashi pressed at it gently, stopping when Nijimura yelped. “How does it feel?”

“Awful.”

“If you broke a rib, I’ll take the liberty of breaking the rest of them,” Akashi said, and Nijimura knew better than anyone else that he meant it. “Good. It’s just bruising.”

Nijimura wheezed. “Still hurts like hell.”

“Don’t complain,” Akashi said, and continued. When he was done treating Nijimura, he pulled away, eyeing his handiwork. Nijimura stretched and noted the dull pain that had before been sharp. “You’re welcome.”

“Thanks,” Nijimura said, reaching out to ruffle Akashi’s hair. He dodged it. “I mean it. Thanks. For everything, I mean.”

“Of course.” Akashi gathered his things, reaching for the phone in his back pocket. “Do you need a ride home?”

Nijimura shook his head. “I’m going to the hospital first.”

“I see.” Heading towards the doorway, Akashi took a moment to turn back to Nijimura. “And be careful.  _Please._ ”

*

His dad was not awake. Nijimura wasn’t sure if he was expecting otherwise. The near-evening outside made it dark and gold, and Nijimura opened a window to let fresh air in. He knew if his father was awake, he would have loved it.

The man in the bed could have only been his father by name; injury took the youth out of his face and replaced it with folds, and his skin had taken on an unhealthy colour that was almost grey. It made Nijimura sick. They could hardly afford the hospital bills, and his entire family knew it would not have made a difference either way. His father was going to die.

Nijimura held up his fist, preparing for a fist bump his father would not return. The machine heralded the rise and fall of his chest Nijimura himself could not see. “I’m trying, Dad.”

If he squinted, his father was smiling. Nijimura continued, “I found…I found your suit in the closet. I hope you don’t mind me using it. Mom never knew, did she?”

In Nijimura’s mind, his father was shaking his head. “Everyone thought it was a construction accident. I’m glad it wasn’t.” Walking back towards the doorway, Nijimura paused. “Now I have something to repay.”

*

Akashi was right, as always. His mother had grown used to the idea that her precious oldest on was getting involved in  _fights_ , but that didn’t mean she had to accept it. Nijimura wished she did. It would have made things easier.

“Shuuzou,” she said, not stopping to take a break from washing the dishes, “what would your father say?”

Nijimura did not bother holding back the bitter feeling welling beneath his tongue. “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”

His mother believing he was a streetfighter who’d fallen in with the wrong crowd was better than the truth, at least. Nijimura waited for the telltale sound of his mother climbing up the stairs, exhaling when it did not come. He opened the closet door. The suit was in there, sleek and jet-black. Nijimura fingered the fabric for a moment before locking his door. He wasn’t yet large enough to fit into it, but he would get there, Nijimura knew.

The phone on his desk blinked with the signal that he’d received a text message, but Nijimura ignored it and put the suit on.

Even after he’d slipped out the window with the blades at his waist, the blinking continued.

*

Night was when the cars went to sleep and the heroes came out.  _Heroes_  was a broad term for it; Nijimura classified anyone in a special suit and mask bearing a special weapon as a hero. He wasn’t naive enough to not realize at least half of them weren’t heroes at all. But those people hardly concerned him.

Nijimura was only interested in the  _hero_ (an ugly, ugly word) responsible for putting his dad in a hospital bed. The city air tasted like old smoke, and he let himself swallow it. Between the buildings and the downtown area in the distance, the blinking lights were blinding. Nijimura stared for a moment.

On the other side, there were cars racing across the highway. He could hear them blinking from where he stood, the middle of the city. A cry exploded from the smaller bridge ahead (above the lake above the lake  _above the lake_ ), and Nijimura broke into a run around the same time the cry broke into a scream.

Once he finally made it to the bridge, his heart threatened to rip out of his throat. A car balanced on the edge, wavering dangerously close to the water’s hands. Nijimura took a look around. There was the smell of fresh smoke rising from the spots of flame, and the too-late sound of police sirens.  _Useless,_ Nijimura thought. There was no sign of whoever was responsible (a hero, of course), and Nijimura had yet to see if that was a good thing.

He sprinted over to the car, sliding beneath the railing. Three sharp punches to the windshield broke the glass, and miraculously, it didn’t hit anyone still in the car. Nijimura looked at their glazed eyes. Grabbing the little boy in the front, Nijimura put him safely on the bridge. “Gotcha.”

The bridge and car groaned under their own weight. The metal creaking and stretching had never sounded more like a scream. Nijimura reached out a hand to the man in the front seat (he was wearing a suit, torn up and burnt at his edges).

“My son,” said the man. “Is he safe?”

“Yeah,” Nijimura said. “Yeah.” He reached out and almost, almost grabbed his hand before the water claimed the car first.

Everything broke into shades of black and white. Nijimura nearly leapt off the edge of the bridge, still reaching, if a hand hadn’t grabbed him by the back of his suit first. “Calm down. He’s gone.”

Nijimura shoved the arm off. “I could have—”

“You couldn’t have done anything.” The person who’d grabbed him was also in a suit, and Nijimura saw a crossbow and quiver at his back. “You know this.”

All Nijimura could think of was the little boy behind him, and the man in the hospital bed. “Shut up!”

“You can’t save everybody.” The voice was so harsh Nijimura almost recoiled. His own hand reached for the blade before Nijimura could stop it, and he swung it forward.

The person jumped backwards, but not before the edge of his blade made a clean cut across his cheekbone. Immediately clutching a hand to their cheek, the person made a run for it.

Nijimura dropped his blade, alone with the sound of police sirens and the softness of a little boy crying.

*

He opened the front door to his house around two in the morning. His mother was still awake and on the couch. “Your siblings are sleeping. It would be better for you to keep quiet.”

“I’m trying,” Nijimura said, heading straight for the staircase. He couldn’t and didn’t want to think. There was too much to think about. It was beginning to hurt.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Nijimura said, and went up the stairs.

From his room, the blinking hadn’t stopped.

*

He walked into school on time, sliding into the seat next to Akashi. His body ached, and he would have stayed home if not for his siblings. He had to keep a good example.

( _What kind_ , Nijimura thought,  _of good example lets people die?_ )

Akashi hadn’t yet looked up from whatever he was working on, and Nijimura let his head rest on his desk. “Good morning to you too,” Nijimura said.

“Hello,” Akashi said. “Did you not get my texts?”

“I didn’t check my phone all last night.” He ignored the throbbing in his head.

Akashi shook his head. It was becoming a normal reaction to Nijimura’s antics, and he’d learned to ignore it. “Busy?”

“Yeah.”

Akashi finally looked up at him. “I told you—”

“Hold on for a minute.” Nijimura jumped up from the desk, leaning over Akashi. The blood was pounding in his ears. Running a finger over the neat bandage on Akashi’s cheekbone, he said, “What is this?”

“This?” Akashi put a hand over Nijimura’s. “A basketball incident.”

They both knew Akashi didn’t have practice yesterday. “Could I take it off?” Nijimura said, hand wavering.

“I don’t—”

Akashi made no effort to stop him as he peeled the bandage off, heart stopping as he saw a familiar cut.

*****

**like a moth // college + house party au  
** **warnings: alcohol use**

*****

Nijimura never pegged him as the type to enjoy, nonetheless  _host_  house parties—but then again, Himuro had never been the most predictable person to begin with, and Nijimura was already along for the ride. When he wasn’t being quiet and polite, he was  _planning_ _house parties for God’s good sake_ , and as his roommate, Nijimura was suckered into it as well. Everything about it screamed _college students who’ve lost all control of their lives_. Nijimura had never been more grateful for their erring-on-the-right-side-of-dead neighbourhood.

The entire place smelled like cheap alcohol, fake weather, and sweat. Nijimura was already beginning to regret a good majority of his life decisions a moment too late. He would have been able to talk Himuro out of it if he’d tried (which he did not), but it’d been a long week, they were on break, and Nijimura really,  _really_ needed a chance to just unwind. In hindsight, holding a party wasn’t the best way to do so.

Aomine danced over to Nijimura, a can of soda in his hands. That alone was a surprised. His shirt was off, and looking into the distance, Nijimura saw a lump he identified as Kise and a black short thrown lazily over his head. He didn’t even want to know. “Enjoying the party?” Aomine asked, swaying his hips. He tried to take another sip of his soda and missed his mouth.

Nijimura was getting sad just watching him try. “Kind of.”

Aomine shook his head. “That’s ‘cause you’re not doing anything but sitting there!” He pulled Nijimura up by the shirt and gestured to where a group of people were body slamming into each other and pretending it was a new dance. “Join the fun, dude. It’s your house.”

Pushing him off gently, Nijimura said, “I’m good, thanks.”

Aomine stopped dancing to study him. “You don’t look so good.”

Nijimura glared. “I’m not the one drunk out of my skull.”

He was only met with laughter before it morphed into a coughing fit. “I haven’t even had a sip of alcohol!” In an attempt to prove himself, Aomine held up the Coke can. “This is all I’ve been drinking.”

“Well, either way,” Nijimura said, pushing past Aomine, “I feel uncomfortable being within a ten-foot radius of you.”

Aomine took (fell into) his seat on the couch and frowned, crossing his legs. “Ouch.”

The loud music pulsed through the room and wormed its way into his ears. He was going to kill Himuro when he got the chance. Between the thrumming music and people yelling and laughing, crawling into his bed and slamming his head repeatedly against the wall sounded like a much better option. He was at least thankful that Himuro’s choice in music was decent.

He was about halfway to the stairs when he heard three sharp raps on the door. Anybody who had an interest in going to the party wouldn’t be polite about it, he knew, and for a second, Nijimura feared for his life. A quick glance around the room told him everybody else either a) didn’t hear or b) simply had no intention of opening the door. He honestly couldn’t tell which one was more likely.

Nijimura made his way to the door and swung it open, quickly running a hand through his bangs. “Hey.”

The boy who stared at him looked young enough to be in high school, and the annoyed expression on his face wasn’t helping. Despite it being summer, the evening was chilly, and he shivered in his university hoodie and shorts. Nijimura found himself staring at his legs.  _Definitely not a high school student._ “I was wondering if you could turn your music down.”

It took Nijimura a few moments to remember how to speak. “Uh.”

The boy shifted his weight from foot to foot, hood pulled over his hand and hands safe in his pockets. “It’s late, your music is  _ridiculously_ loud, and I would appreciate it if I could sleep tonight.”

Nijimura leaned against the doorway, enjoying how the boy had to look up. “You could always join us, you know,” he said before he could stop himself. “The more the merrier, right?”

The boy took a moment to answer, and Nijimura took that as a good sign. “I shouldn’t.” His eyes had yet to leave Nijimura’s face. Nijimura wondered what it would be like to kiss him.

“If you say so,” Nijimura said, turning to head back inside.

He waited before the boy inevitably caved: “I guess staying for a little while wouldn’t hurt all that much.”

*****

**hooked // boxing au  
** **warnings: profanity, sports-typical violence**

*****

 

Nijimura wasn’t used to newcomers. The gym had been open long enough for a usual crowd to settle in at a usual time, but it wasn’t open for so long that different people filtered in and out every single day. He liked it, of course: it brought an easy balance that Nijimura didn’t have to think about, and it let him know which fighters were too irresponsible to train there in the first place. It uncomplicated things, and God knew the last thing Nijimura needed was complication.

The oldest fighter he knew was Aomine Daiki: sixteen, broad, and an expert at hooks. Aomine had been fighting since he was around thirteen, and began training at the gym last year. He had the highest fight record in the entire place and knew it, too—Nijimura left it to Mayuzumi to train the arrogance right out of him. Apparently, a challenger from the Seirin gym on the other side of town requested a fight. It would put him in his place, if nothing else.

The second oldest fighter was Midorima Shintarou. He was tall and lanky and fit into a surprisingly low weight class considering his height, but he threw a mean uppercut. He was from the nicer side of town and made the least likely fighter (he walked in and out of the gym every day in a suit, and Nijimura felt the need to thank some God that he changed into training gear), but he fought hard all the same. He’d only been training for around seven months, and was still working his way around being clumsy in the ring. Nijimura (again) left that to Mayuzumi. There were more fighters, but none came as often or stayed as long as Midorima or Aomine. It showed, too.

When a  _newcomer_  (the word was almost taboo) walked in with an expensive gym bag, Mayuzumi eyebrows nearly shot right off of his face. “That’s a new one.”

Nijimura stopped yelling at Aomine to turn to Mayuzumi, who never paid attention to the fighters who came and went as they pleased. That alone was worth noting. “Who?”

“Over there.” Mayuzumi gestured pointed to a red-headed boy. He was wearing a loose shirt and basketball shorts that almost fell to his knees, but he looked at the equipment in a way an amateur never would have. “Think he’s looking for a membership?”

Nijimura gave the mitts to Mayuzumi. “Do a few rounds with Aomine for me, yeah? I’ll take care of our mystery guy.”

Yawning as he walked over to the boy, Nijimura said, “Looking for a membership? You’ll have to fill out these forms. It’s twenty bucks a month.”

The boy handed finished copies of the forms over to him. Nijimura was impressed. “I’m transferring from the Rakuzan gym.”

Nijimura froze for a minute before looking him over. The clothes he was wearing hid any solid muscle he might have had. “You’re a Rakuzan fighter? Holy shit.”

“Was,” the boy corrected. He gave Nijimura the twenty dollars as asked. “Is it possible for me to start training today?”

Nijimura was still in awe. “I don’t see why not.” Before the boy headed off to the bathroom to change, Nijimura said, “By the way, what’s your name? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.” Anyone involved in fighting new the Rakuzan fighters by punch and by style; they’d be stupid not to.

“Akashi. Akashi Seijuurou.” Making his way to the bathroom, one hand clasped around his gym back, Akashi did not look back.

Nijimura was more than a little impressed.

*

The boy did not disappoint. Nijimura and Mayuzumi stood by the ring, watching him practice on one of the heavy bags. His combinations were sound and compact, and he prowled around the bag like a hunter going in for the kill.

“He’s a Rakuzan fighter,” Nijimura said when Mayuzumi didn’t bother starting conversation.

“I figured,” Mayuzumi answered. He watched Akashi hit the bag with a hook so hard it nearly went flying, and whistled when he ducked around it with a follow-up hook. “He’s wearing a Rakuzan shirt.”

“You don’t understand.” Nijimura stopped leaning against the sides of the ring. “That’s Akashi Seijuurou.”

Mayuzumi nearly fell over. “No way. I thought he took a break from fighting?”

“Well, apparently, he’s back.” They both watched Akashi break into a steady rhythm of jab-power punch-hook-power punch-uppercut. When the timer sounded, he wiped his face with the bottom of his shirt and took a sip of his water bottle, chest rising and falling. “Wonder why he switched.”

“None of our business.” Mayuzumi picked up the mitts and called Aomine into the gym. “All we need to care about is how long he stays.”

He was right, of course.

*

Being good with the bag and being good in a match were too entirely different things. Having Akashi and Aomine spar with each other sounded like a disaster (Mayuzumi had yet to stop screaming about the weight class differences), but Nijimura couldn’t see what was wrong with it.

“Our best fighter against the newcomer. Nobody else is on Aomine’s level. It’s good, yeah?” He stopped applying vaseline to Aomine’s face to reach for the face guard. “Besides, if he’s half as good in a match as he is with the bag, it’ll be good for Aomine. His fight’s in a month.

Mayuzumi’s expression told him otherwise, but he didn’t say anything else about it. “Fair enough.”

The fight was a good one. Seconds before the timer went off, Akashi let a hook loose as his fist slammed into Aomine’s side. They were both silent in the room as Aomine coughed in an attempt to recover from the punch.

Mayuzumi dropped his water bottle.

Akashi’s entire body shone with sweat, and he leaned over the side of the ring, staring at Nijimura. “Am I in yet?”

He was one-hundred percent screwed, and he didn’t mean in a fight. “Yeah. Welcome to Teikou.”

*****

**king of spades // royalty au  
** **warnings: death mention**

*****

 

“Are you enjoying the dance, my lord?” The serving girl who approached him was pretty and plain, and the tray in her hand empty. He was enjoying the time alone on the balcony, but it wasn’t meant to last. (That, Nijimura thought sourly, was a real tragedy.)

“I am,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t pick up on the lie.

She didn’t. “I thought you’d prefer to be in the main hall.” She picked at the hem of her skirt, looking up at him.  _Definitely sent by the hosts._

“You see,” Nijimura told her, pausing to adjust the collar high against his neck. “They seem very busy, and I’d rather not intrude.”

“Oh, no, my lord,” she said, eyes wide. “It’s nothing like that at all!” When she looked towards him and stood on the tips of her toes, her eyes were hooded and dark. “My mistress requested our presence.”

Nijimura swallowed.

*

Everything from the floors to the embroidery on the heavy drapes was gold, and the floors shone so brightly it was like looking into a mirror. Nijimura wasn’t so stupid that he couldn’t read the mood—the royals across from him were clutching their silverware (goldware?) as if they were blades.

He was no stranger to The Game (all royals were designated players and their lives the price of loss), but as the youngest son in three and the last in line for the throne, he’d become accustomed to watching from the sidelines.

“So,” said the woman across from him, folding her gloved hands beneath her chin. Her mask obstructed her face and he could not see the threat nor expression on it, but he would have been able to tell either way. The air was thick with the smell of heady wine and ink. Absent-mindedly, Nijimura thought it was a strange combination. “You are the prince of Teikou, are you not?”

He smiled at her, hesitant to breathe. “One of them.” The room held its breath as he did. This was, in fact, The Game, and every word or movement or  _being_ was a weapon.

“I see. You must be close with your brothers, no?”

It was then that Nijimura noticed all the eyes in the room were on him. Swallowing again, he said, “Not especially.” Was it worse to lie or tell the truth? Was it better to uphold the rules or to defy them? He continued. “They’ve all been…busy with politics? Kingdom planning.” He let out a sharp, awkward burst of laughter, which she did not return. The suit seemed to cling to his skin like a net, a trap.

“Interesting,” the woman said in a tone that told him otherwise. They were sitting there, at the table, silent behind their masks. Had it always been this hot? He could not remember. “Well,” said the woman at last, stretching in her seat, “shall we bring in the main course?”

At her command, a few servants hurried into the room. They, too, were wearing masks, but they were to hide the face rather than to glamorize it. One of them gazed at Nijimura from below long, sweeping bangs, before mumbling a quick apology. He held a golden goblet, and beneath the light, it winked and blinked like the fine edge of a knife. It was blinding.

“For you,” the woman said, smiling. Her lips were red, blood-like. The red wine in the cup clawed at its edges. “To Teikou.”

“Yes,” Nijimura said. “Yes.” The boy offered the cup to him, eyes downcast. He’d just touched it when it slipped out of the boy’s hand and fell to the ground, shattering in a breath of glass. Red pooled above the gold. The room recoiled, twisting within itself.

“You stupid fool!” She grabbed the boy by his shoulders, knuckles paling. As she shook him, the mask fell, and, shying away from her, he knelt to pick it up. Clutching it to his face, Nijimura heard the bits of another apology. “Go,” she said, pointing to the shut door, and he did.

“My apologies, Prince.” The smile she gave him strained. “We will have to continue this another time.”

*

Outside of the grand hall, breath came easy. His heart relaxed in its cage. Some more of the servants had showed him his room, but there was no sign of the one boy who refused to look him in the eye. He was about to open the door when a hand clamped down on his wrist.

“You’re in danger.” Nijimura turned to see the serving boy, and realized it was only through the red hair that he was able to recognize him. “You shouldn’t need my warning to know that.” The boy stood tall and proud, one hand keeping the mask in place. He looked nothing like the boy Nijimura had encountered only hours before.

“How do you know this?”

The boy took his hand back. “The drink. It was poisoned.”

A moment without thought—a spectacular blackout—and everything fell into place. “So you dropped it on purpose?” He already knew the answer.

Nodding, the boy relaxed. “That’s not going to be the last attempt on your life while you’re here.”

He was right, of course. It was The Game; anything and everything he could think of was fair.

“Why are you helping me?” Nijimura said, although he’d long since unclenched his fists. “And how do I know I can trust you?”

The boy lowered his mask, eyes as brilliant as his hair. “Truth is, you don’t. But then again, who _can_ you trust here?”  _Nobody_ , Nijimura knew. “If she manages to take you out of The Game, she wins not only The Game, but Teikou.”

For a moment, Nijimura understood—understood the weight of a kingdom, understand that the people carrying it were the puppet masters and not the pieces. He had no interest in playing, but he also had no choice. “Alright,” he said.

“Well, your opponent is already making her move,  _Prince_.” The way he drew out the last word almost made Nijimura shiver. “What’ll yours be?”

*****

**too few rounds in the ring (not enough settled scores) // royalty au  
** **warnings: death mention**

*****

 

He accepted the job as he did most jobs: without question. During his time in the line of work, Akashi had come to gather his own treasure trove of tips. First: don’t ask questions. And second: don’t answer them.

It wasn’t any of his business if they wanted an old man, or a young child killed, not when he was getting paid for it. Years of it had taken out whatever parts of him remained soft, and he was more grateful for that than he should have been. Looking back on it, Akashi wanted to slam his face into the nearest wall for forgetting one of the most crucial fundamentals of being a hitman: don’t get interested.

 _Nijimura Shuuzou._  Akashi hadn’t been involved long enough to tell who was somebody and who _wasn’t_ , but a quick Google search brought up an image of a nice-enough looking guy with dark hair and a wolfish grin. Those were usually the easiest to take out. He seemed like the average young adult, still young enough to have a grin on, but old enough that it didn’t spread to his eyes.

It was, again, none of Akashi’s business if his client wanted Nijimura dead. It only mattered to him whether or not he got the job done. The client had given Akashi a week to take him out, urging him to take his time (and only in hindsight would he be able to realize all the pieces that didn’t fit). Akashi saw no point in dilly-dallying when you could finish the job right away.

Nijimura Shuuzou was an elementary teacher. Akashi thought that was cute. He found him after work hours, staying with a kid. They were both hunched around a table—Akashi put two and two together. Tutoring sessions. For the sake of the kid if nothing else, he’d wait till Nijimura was somewhere different to take him out. Nijimura had conveniently walked into one of the more secluded parts of town when Akashi took out his gun from his perch on the nearby roof. Nijimura stilled.

 _Too eas_ y, Akashi thought.

“How much are they paying you?”

Both Akashi and the hands around his gun froze. Another rule of being a hitman emerged somewhere: don’t talk. Akashi broke it. “Excuse me?”

“How much are they paying you?” Nijimura turned around and looked him straight in the eye, hands in his pockets. Akashi would have shuddered. “It’s gotta be a lot, right?”

He either enjoyed talking far too more than he should have, or was too damn eager to die. Akashi took a moment to take all emotion of his voice. “That doesn’t concern you.”

“It has to at least a little, right? It’s my life.”

What bothered Akashi the most was how casual he looked, just standing there as if he was daring him to shoot. It was a dangerous gamble; if Nijimura was half as smart as he enjoyed pretending to be, he knew Akashi could and would shoot. So why hadn’t he? “Not anymore.”

It wasn’t until he pulled the trigger and everything went into slow motion that Akashi realized the street was dead empty. The bullet hit, and Nijimura staggered backwards for a moment before yanking out a walkie talkie. (Bulletproof vests, Akashi thought.)

“Ninth here,” Akashi heard him say into the walkie talkie. “Target locked.”

Akashi whipped around made a run for the exit, keeping one hand at his belt. He was made at Nijimura for setting up the trap, of course, but he was angrier at himself for getting caught in it.

He nearly skidded backwards when he was met with a police group of three, all with their guns aimed. One of them he recognized as his client—Aomine.

“Hands up,” one of the other officers said. He wasn’t in any place to disobey.

“Sorry about that,” Aomine said, grinning in a way that showed he wasn’t sorry at all. “Looks like you’ve hit a dead end.”

As they walked towards him with the handcuffs, Akashi remembered the last and most important rule he’d broken: don’t get caught.


End file.
